


Don't You Think the Joker Laughs At You?

by thought



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, postcyberpunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Von Doom is in New York. Tony Stark is...bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Think the Joker Laughs At You?

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring Tony Stark, creepy fucker.  
> ...I just really want Doom and Stark to be engineering bros ok  
> Title from 'I am the Walrus', obviously.

Getting into Tony Stark's private residence (not, contrary to popular and carefully cultivated belief, the downtown eyesore which is Stark Tower, but rather a cookie cutter mansion on Fifth) is an exercise in patience. It's late and Victor has spent most of his day in meetings, occasionally two at once because, unlike politicians, scientists don't care if they're talking to you in realspace when a netspace meeting will do just as well. As soon as he exits the car in front of the gates of the mansion, advertisements for SI pop up in the upper right corner of his vision, overlaying the steadily scrolling bar where he's been keeping track of his name in social media and news. He pings the gate and is pleasantly surprised when it swings open immediately. He finds Americans crass and disrespectful on the whole, and to be so readily welcomed doesn't fit what Victor knows of Stark.

The drive hasn't been cleared recently, and he's got to tromp through a good four inches of snow while evergreens stand guard on either side. The chill air bites at his exposed face and hands, and the dim twilight provides barely enough light to keep his path. It takes a good twenty minutes of walking before he realizes that something's wrong. As soon as he calls the network things snap back into place, the snow vanishing, the light pollution of the city leaking in over the gates, the front steps of the house just in front of him. He's walked perhaps thirty feet, and there's a cheery little SI logo right in front of his face assuring him that Starktech virtual realspace is the best experience on the market. He dismisses it angrily. Barely a minute in realtime has passed, and when he looks down Loki is sitting at his feet, a Coyote for the moment and laughing at him, tongue lolling out, tail thumping.

"I'll cut your tongue out," Victor snaps.

"It was a good trick,” Loki says.

"It was invasive and humiliating," Victor retorts, but he still goes up the worn stone steps and rings the bell.

The door opens almost immediately. "Impressive," Tony Stark says. "Most people wander around for a good three hours before they start to wonder. Nineteen minutes might be a new record."

Victor glares. Loki nips none-too-gently at his hand. Victor straightens. "I would like," he says, formal and precise as these things must be, "to invoke the Travelers' privileges, to request of you, as Baron of these lands, safe haven within your walls for the time of two nights."

Stark waves a hand absently. "Yeah, yeah, and as Baron of these lands I offer you my home and protection, be welcome here. Why aren't you at a hotel?"

Victor steps inside, Loki trailing alongside. "It would be unwise."

Stark makes faux-sympathetic noises. "Research grant get pulled? I know how it is-- oh wait."

"I have spent my day presenting Latverian military projects to the UNSC, and the embassy is still under construction after the last earthquake."

"Ahh. Didn't feel like getting assassinated in your hotel room?"

"No attempt would succeed. I simply haven't the inclination to deal with the hassle. As you are a private baron and the best weapons manufacturer and engineer this side of the Atlantic, I suspect my stay here will be far more pleasant."

"Yeah, funny thing about that. Travelers' rights only apply to the... specifically gifted."

"I don't exactly advertise. My people have harsher views on that sort of thing than many."

"But you are--"

"A witch? Yes. And through bloodlines, so your agreement was binding, incidentally."

Stark huffs a breath. "Sufficiently advanced technology. I knew, I just wanted to see what you called it. I've looked you up."

"I'd be more surprised if you hadn't," Victor says. "I've read your papers on clean energy. It's a charming thought."

Stark leads him out of the entry hall and through a narrow corridor, walls tastefully displaying rotating images of modernist paintings, and into an expansive kitchen, obviously rarely used. "Mmhm. I might have read your work in my textbook at MIT, now that I think about it."

Victor snorts. "You're not that young."

"I was. In university, I mean, so it's actually a possibility. Do you want coffee, by the way? I'm the worst host. I hope you weren't expecting mints on the pillows or actual meals. We don't exactly get houseguests that often."

"We?" Loki asks.

Victor is reasonably certain that Stark isn't egotistical enough to speak in the royal first person plural, but he's quite certain the man must have staff running the house. He probably, Victor reflects wryly, doesn’t have Victor's tendency to refer to said staff as servants in the privacy of his own thoughts. Stark's reply, then, comes as a surprise. He actually ducks his head briefly before speaking. "Right. Let that slip a little earlier than I planned, I don't really need to verbalize much these days, I’m clumsy. Though I suppose one damning secret deserves another. I'd like you to meet my partner, Jarvis."

Victor looks around redundantly - he'd know if anyone else were in the room with them. Loki lets out a cut off yip, ears going back and Victor looks at - well. In a purely physical sense, Stark's body hasn't changed. In every other way, the person standing in front of them is not Tony Stark. The mannerisms, the way he holds himself, and more importantly the sudden shift in the identification information that pops up when Victor looks directly at him and flicks his gaze quickly to the left. Jarvis's profile is, other than the name and current location, completely blurred out, and even a quick attempt to hack away the blur yields no results. It is, of course, impossible to exist without a profile, but Victor has seen poorer cover-ups on some government agents.

"Lord Von Doom," Jarvis says, holding out a hand. "An honour to make your acquaintance." The voice is Stark's; the accent jarringly not-- crisp and Colonial and all wrong for the voice it's using.

"And you," says Victor, who (after years of politics) is quite sure he will be charmingly thanking the undertakers at his funeral with perfect diction. Jarvis' handshake is firm. Stark's voice comes in as audio input with no warning, reassuringly brash and American.

"He's my partner. The body is so thoroughly networked that it's easier if we just share it and the servers. Faster, more efficient, and far sexier, wouldn't you agree?"

"He's an AI?" Victor demands, the realization slamming home as the words leave his lips.

"He is right here, and fully sentient," Jarvis says snippily.

"Your code must be incredibly complex," Victor says. "And incredibly illegal."

"Quite," Jarvis says.

Again, Stark's body shifts and it's Stark back in control. "But hey, you're a good guy, not gonna tell on us, are you?"

Victor raises an eyebrow deliberately, and Stark's smile hardens.

"Let me put it another way. You have nothing to gain from telling anyone, and if you try to blackmail me I have access to the sort of weapons that could reduce your backwater little country to a smoking crater."

"Latveria has very good defence systems," Victor says. "No matter, I have no interest in playing games and you have nothing I want."

"Coffee?" Stark's grin is suddenly back to bright and polished. "You look like you could use it."

"Yes, thank you," says Victor, but something is still niggling at him. Stark prepares the coffee automatically, as precise and graceful as any of his machines and just as automated. He hands Victor a coffee that is better than what he's expecting but still not as strong as he's used to in a mug that is stained and chipped and perhaps the most personal item Victor's seen in the mansion so far. Neither of them sits.

"If you engage in as little realspace social contact as you imply why do you keep the skin?" He's honestly curious--vanity, perhaps? To look at Stark one might think him a naturalist, all smooth unblemished skin, not even the slight bump of a covered chip. Victor's own wetware is prominent, the basics done during his childhood when even if Latveria had been producing the sort of advanced tech that Japan was importing to North America and the UK, his parents wouldn’t have been able to afford it; his later upgrades done on a scholarship students budget when the US was going through its brief but passionate affair with the vintage aesthetic. He wears the silver band curved around the back of his skull like a crown, the ports on his neck and the pewter chips nestled between the veins of his wrists like badges of honour. For Tony Stark, self-proclaimed futurist, to constantly project a skin of naturalistic "purity" seems abnormal enough to merit inquiry.

Stark props his chin on his hand. "Eventually I'm going to start expecting some secrets in return, you know." He holds up an arm, bared by the grease-stained black t-shirt he's wearing. "Not a skin. It's all in here," he taps his forearm. "I told you this body is networked as fuck to do the things we do. Tiny nanobots swimming around in my bloodstream rewired my brain. You could say its one giant piece of wetware."

It's incredible, but Victor's already let himself show admiration for enough of what Stark has done. "And you and y-- Jarvis connect through your... brain."

Stark shrugs. "In very simple terms, sure. As I said, one body, one server, all the wireless connectivity you could ever need. We can get pretty much anywhere we need to be on the planet as long as there's hardware with enough storage to accommodate us or a connection fast enough to stream. Physical limitations are pretty terrifying and incomprehensible to an AI. It's not like Jarvis could be happy stuck in the house with me all the time."

That is as understandable as it is terrifying. "You've got nothing external at all then?"

Stark leers and it's as automatic as the coffee. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Victor doesn't dignify this with a response.

Stark taps a finger against the side of the mug. "I like yours, though. Retro. It suits you. And you kind of match your robots, very stylish."

It is a miracle that Tony Stark has managed to live past forty. "One of my current projects is armour, actually," Victor says resignedly. "Same outward design as the bots, but designed to be worn by people."

Stark blows out a breath and his entire face seems transformed, eyes bright and truly focused for the first time during the entire conversation. "Yeah," he says. "That's-- yeah. Good. No wonder UNSC wanted to see you."

Victor laughs. "That was reasonably low on the list, actually."

Stark swallows down the rest of his coffee. "The armour, it'll have a mask, won't it?"

Victor shrugs. "A helmet with adjustable faceplate, if that's what you mean."

Stark frowns. "Nope, too close. A mask. Hey, could help with your, you know--" he gestures awkwardly at Victor's face.

"What are you talking about?" Victor does not reach up to touch his face, but it's an effort.

Stark ducks his head. "Sorry. Delicate subject, I'm also bad at those."

"You’re making less sense than usual," Victor says, losing patience quickly. Loki's warm flank presses against his leg, and there's a barely perceptible growl vibrating his ribcage.

Stark shrugs, tosses his cup in the sink. "If that's how you treat your hosts it's no wonder you didn't want to try hotels. Take any of the rooms in the east wing, they’re all stocked with the basics. I've got to get back to work-- don't give me the disapproving monarch frown, I warned you I'm an egregiously awful host. I gave you caffeine, what are we expecting of me, here?"

"Far be it for me to impose such burdensome things as expectations and social niceties upon you, I do apologize," Victor says dryly. Stark nods, clearly appeased.

"Apology accepted." He's already walking out of the room, eyes gone glassy and Victor can't tell if he's purposely ignoring the sarcasm or simply isn't present enough to care.

Victor lets Loki pick the room from the selection of identical mahogany doors lining the plush carpeted corridor of the east wing. The room is opulent, but not overstated, and while he doesn't like to think himself petty or soft enough to put much stock in things like thread count or water pressure he does take particular pleasure in stripping away his clothing and rinsing away the long day under hot water and soap. When he steps back into the main room, wrapped in a silk robe and damp, Loki is stretched out across the blankets, all four paws spread-eagle. It puts Victor immediately on guard.

"You look... comfortable," he says. Loki's ear twitches. The pose is exactly that, a pose, precocious in its indolent mockery of trust and relaxation.

"Why Victor, I am merely taking advantage of the generous hospitality of our hosts."

Victor lets out a breath. "Of course they're watching us, don't be so concerned. I'd do the same thing in Stark's place and you know it."

"It is invasive, the way they try to hide it, like it's more polite if no one says it."

Victor settles down on the bed. It's not the first time they’ve had this conversation. If there's one thing Loki can't stand it's an audience which won’t admit it's an audience-- Loki the performer, trickster, liesmith, shapeshifter, shameful, strange, unwanted. It doesn't matter if the attention is good or bad as long as there's an acknowledgement there, the social contract of viewer and subject. It's not the being watched Loki minds, it's the attempted secrecy of the watcher. He doesn’t say any of this-- doesn't need to. Settling between the sheets he extends a hand to stroke through the scruff at the back of Loki's neck. "I know, I know. Midgardians are horrible, the realm should be burned to ash, etc. Go to sleep, if you can."

Loki huffs irritably, but curls up into a far more natural looking ball, tail tucked to nose. Victor has almost drifted off when Loki speaks. "He wouldn't destroy Latveria. He tries to hide it but he's positively bursting with sentimentality and the need to be good. It's disgusting."

"I know," says Victor, who hadn't known, not definitively, though he'd had a good idea.

Loki presses a wet nose to the back of Victor's neck. "Or at least, he'd feel very badly if he did destroy it. I'd imagine there'd be tears."

Victor shoves his face into the pillow and determinedly goes to sleep.

In the morning when Victor trudges downstairs in hunt of caffeine and food he's surprised to find Stark already in the kitchen. He minimizes the newsfeeds he's been half-reading and focuses his attention on the other man where he's standing hunched over the stove, something sizzling enthusiastically in a pan as he pokes it with a spatula. Loki is a raven and perched precariously on Starks' shoulder, watching the proceedings with a tilted head.

"Making friends and influencing people?" Victor asks either of them.

Stark glances back at him quickly. "Your friend is impressive."

Loki preens. Victor can feel his eyebrows pulling together against his will. "Careful of that one," he tells Stark. "As soon pick your eyes out as wait for the bacon."

"Charming as always, Victor," Loki says.

Stark empties the contents of a glass cutting board into the pan. "I'm not worried. Nothing's happened yet to unquiet my thoughts."

Loki's wing twitches. Jarvis says (thankfully not using Starks' mouth) "Don't be obnoxious, Anthony."

"That wasn't even clever," Loki agrees. Victor has long-since given up wondering how Loki gets access to netspace without any implants, but it's still occasionally unnerving.

Stark turns away from the pan to face Victor. "Not my best, I admit, but you show up on the network as Stranger.exe and you've been both a coyote and a raven. Plus last night he said Midgardian. I assume you're not aiming for subtlety. Do you prefer Loki or Loptr?"

Loki flutters off Stark’s shoulder and settles on the back of a chair. "Why don't you tell me?"

Stark grins. "Snarky, I approve." He turns to Victor. "And you act like Jarvis is a marvel. You're not exactly coding Hal over here."

Victor has never actually seen the film-- he prefers his media a touch more interactive (with the exception of paper books) and a touch less American, but he was an engineering student so of course he's sat through the mandatory 'this is why advanced artificial intelligence is illegal' courses, complete with over-blown clips from fiction, drawn out records of court cases and ethics trials, horrific images of what happens when intelligent missiles get a bit too intelligent. "You think Loki is AI."

Stark arches an eyebrow. "Obviously."

"I assure you," Loki says primly, "I am entirely real."

"Your pardon," Jarvis says icily.

"No offense meant," Victor says quickly, because Loki is sometimes frustratingly and deliberately careless with verbal attacks and Victor has no doubt that their lives could become very unpleasant if their hosts are provoked.

"Prove it," says Stark. Behind him the contents of the pan stop sizzling, leaving the kitchen intrusively silent.

Loki rakes talons down Stark’s arm, ripping the dress shirt open and bringing blood to the surface to drip steadily onto the tiles. Victor starts planning escape routes while he actively does not bang his head against the wall.

"So you're an android," Stark says, unphased. The skin begins to knit together in front of their eyes while he tugs off the shirt, leaving him in a threadbare black tanktop.

"Loki," says Victor, in the same way one says "no" in the midst of a plane crash-- entirely aware of the futility but still feeling obliged to make one's opinion known.

Loki's magic usually manifests in shades of green on the visible scale --different shades than Victor's but near enough to give him a tiny thrill of possessive satisfaction of which Loki will never know-- but this time it comes out a cool, frosty blue, painfully bright as it streaks across the kitchen and hits Stark in the middle of his chest. Stark falls backwards, and the pan bounces off the stovetop and lands, right-side-up on the floor and Victor wonders if diplomatic immunity will stretch this far. Stark slides down to sit on the floor and is conveniently not dead, so Victor goes to pick up their breakfast and set it back on the worktop so that he can turn his back on Loki.

"That's not like any kind of energy I've seen before," says Stark. He's got both hands pressed to his chest and all the colour has drained from his face, but he's grinning dazedly and his eyes are moving rapidly under half closed lids.

"Is that proof enough?" Loki asks.

Stark wiggles his fingers like he's typing. "It's something," he says. "You might have to work harder to convince me that you’re what, a god?"

"Is it so hard to believe? Victor is a witch."

"Sufficiently advanced technology," Stark parrots. Loki's feathers fluff up indignantly.

"If you two are quite done posturing," Victor says coldly. "We should have breakfast like civilized people. I have meetings I need to get to."

The food is excellent, but when Victor compliments Stark he just slumps further down from where he's still sitting on the floor. "Of course it's good," he mutters. "It's perfect."

Loki goes upstairs to sulk, and Jarvis calls Victor a car which drops him off in front of the Baxter Building, where Victor spends a horrible three hours arguing with Reid Richards, which has become somewhat of a tradition when he's in New York. There's the fringe benefit that he's got most of his frustration out by the time he meets with the Secretary General and his afternoon passes reasonably smoothly.

He walks back to the mansion, which is pleasant in that he does not get assassinated and his body could use the exercise, but also winds up with a stream of social media and news updates scrolling down the right side of his field of vision as people start taking note of who he is. It's a bit like watching a live feed of himself that's lagging horribly, and by the time he's stepping through the gates to the mansion he's got a headache and the niggling suspicion he might need a haircut sooner rather than later. He goes up to their room first off to freshen up. Loki is lying on the bed, Aesir and curled up in a pile of untidy long limbs in the dark of winter twilight.

"Have you been sulking all day?" Victor asks, stripping out of his coat and gloves.

"Absolutely," says Loki, which means 'of course not'.

"If you dislike him that much why stay?" Victor asks irritably. Loki glares at him and rolls over, face smushed into a pillow. Victor laughs under his breath and strokes a palm down the long column of Loki's spine from neck to hips. "Sentiment, trickster," he says, a little affectionate, a little cruel.

He goes to stick his head under the tap and wash his face and when he comes back into the room he's got another question. "Your magic was blue, earlier."

"Everything is strange here," says Loki.

A message alert pops up. Victor glances down to the left to open it. It's from Stark.

You said you're building armour. Want to talk shop?

Victor frowns. He'd admittedly been hoping to get the chance to talk with Stark about their respective projects, but the man's reticence and general lack of social awareness had made that opportunity seem unlikely. Still, if the other man is offering, Victor isn’t going to say no.

"I'm going to go talk to Stark," he tells Loki. "Apparently he's interested that I build armour."

Loki burrows under the blankets and mutters "You build nightmares."

Electing to ignore the god's petulant grumbling, Victor runs fingers through his damp hair and heads downstairs. Perhaps if he's very lucky someone will think to order or prepare an evening meal.

When he enters the kitchen Stark is there, being lectured by a woman with a briefcase. She's taller than Stark and is using it to her advantage, getting him pinned up against the countertop near where he'd fallen that morning as she talks.

"...don't know why you won't cooperate, I'm trying to make this easier for you in the long run and you know that, I know you know that, it's maybe an hour of your time, it won't kill you, and then I can report to my superiors that they can call off the investigations..."

"Which never get anywhere--"  
"--Because you fake your records, and Fury *knows* you fake them, which is why I'm hauling around paper copies of everything--"

"--This is slander, I'm going to sue you people for slander, I do not fake my records, I am a fine upstanding member of the public--"

"--Coulson's been pushing for an audit, I can't hold him off forever."

"Why don’t you do the forms then, if you know what I should be doing better that I do?"

"Because, Mr. Stark, I don't work for you."

"Hi, Doom," says Stark over her shoulder. She glances back at Victor where he's standing in the doorway.

"Your Majesty," she says. "I assume you've filed the appropriate forms for your stay? As a visiting dignitary taking advantage of a private baron's hospitality there are a few extras."

"I have," says Victor honestly. She seems taken-a-back for a brief moment, then smiles a little less viciously.

"That's good to hear. Pepper Potts, IRS."

He shakes her hand. Her profile information says her name is Virginia, but he's not going to ask questions. "A pleasure."

"Pepper's the one they send to nag me about my taxes," Stark says, sounding far too happy about that.

Pepper shrugs. "More like I'm the only one willing to deal with him."

"Because I'm amazing and you love me."

"Because it's a change from the mind-numbing monotony that is the rest of my life," she retorts.

Stark tucks his chin against his chest and taps his fingers together. "Boredom. The only real challenge left."

"You appear to be busy," Victor says. "Come find me when you wish to talk."

"Not busy," Stark says.

"So busy," Pepper snaps.

Victor catches a flash of red from the corner of his eye and turns quickly. Stark's gone tense, when he looks back at him, hands up. Pepper is still, waiting for something. There's another flicker of movement, and this time Victor catches a look at a red haired woman in black disappearing down a hallway.

"Got them," says Stark softly. "Duck."  
Pepper and Victor both drop down, and when Victor straightens there's an arrow vibrating incongruously in the doorframe where his head had just been. Stark shakes his head and as he watches the arrow flickers then pixilates, disappearing as suddenly as it arrived.

"Spyware," says Stark. "You're not the only one the government might not mind being victim of an unfortunate accident."

"Not entirely surprising," Victor says.

"Mmhm. They always forget that I'm better. I've got them in quarantine."

"Why not just delete them?"

Stark and Potts exchange a look, and Stark leans back again, pointedly casual. "Never hurts to see what they're sending after me. It'd have to be decent to get in this far."

It's logical, perfectly reasonable, but Victor still feels like he's missing something. Potts leaves when it becomes apparent that Stark has no intentions of focusing on what she's trying to get him to do, and he immediately gestures Victor over to the table once she's gone. "So! I want to talk to you about armour."

"So I assumed," says Victor. A notification flashes up for a few seconds, showing the confirmation of a delivery order for dinner, and Victor sends a quick thanks to Jarvis.

"See," Stark continues, pulling up a set of blueprints across the otherwise empty table, "I've been working on some mechanized armour myself, and as much as it physically pains me to admit it, when it comes to robotics your work makes mine look like a glorified toaster."

Victor pokes thoughtfully at the armour design in front of him. It's larger than his own designs, but-- "Does this fly?" he asks, a touch incredulous. Stark grins.

"Maybe."

Victor sighs. "Of course it does." He’s entertained the idea in his more fanciful bouts of engineering, but never implemented it. There are repulsors powerful enough to be decent weapons in the gauntlets, and areas where he can see more offensive artillery could be added if so desired. "Your main issue is access, obviously. The user ought to be able to get in and out without any aid. Otherwise, the size, but I assume you aren't intending this to be for use outside of combat."

Stark nods. "Right on all accounts. The size becomes less of an issue when you can fly, too. You've got a hell of a lot of manoeuvrability in the air."

"What are you using as fuel? With the weapons and repulsors, plus the atmospheric controls, it's going to be difficult to find something portable enough."

Stark tips back on the back legs of his chair. "I can't explain yet, but assume one very small power source. One that packs a hell of a punch, and is rechargeable"

“You're going to run it on batteries?" Victor asks dryly.

Stark winks. "Something like that. Besides, how are yours running?"

Victor shrugs. "A similar idea," he admits. "But I've got an advantage that you don't." It's showy, but he can't resist drawing a bit of magic out, shaping it into a tiny replica of his armour in the palm of his hand. His magic, at least, remains reassuringly green.

"That's right," Stark says, watching intently. "One day I'm gonna figure that out, too."

Victor zooms in on the exterior of the armour. "Do you have a prototype?" he asks. If everything's so well-insulated there's going to be an icing problem after a certain altitude.

"No, just blueprints so far."

Victor glances up, surprised. "Surely you've built something? One doesn't create this level of detail without some practical application."

"What can I say, I'm an impractical guy." Stark waves a hand airily. "There'll be lots of time to build it."

"What are you looking at for manufacturing costs?"

Stark winces. "They're high."

"May I ask who you're shopping this around to?"

Stark sits forward, chair thunking back to the floor. “Can't tell you, but there's definitely interest."

They spend the next few hours comparing armour designs. Jarvis interjects now and then, but he seems notably absent from most of the discussion. When Victor asks, Stark dismisses the question off-handedly. "He's putting the finishing touches on a different project we're working on. It's just about ready to go live. He's just working out the final few kinks."

By the time Victor falls into bed, Loki is sound asleep and the European half of his feeds are well into their mornings. He sleeps poorly despite his long day, and when he wakes it's to the dull grey of an overcast winter morning creeping, muted, through the window. He's still sleep-fogged and the room out from beneath the tangled blankets seems colder than when he'd gone to bed. Loki wanders into the room with a mug of hot rich coffee for him and sticks close to Victor while he gets ready for the day, slipping into the palatial shower alongside him, bumping their shoulders and elbows together while they dress, following right at his shoulder when they go down to the kitchen.

Stark is, again, already there, presenting them with another delicious breakfast and chattering about inconsequential things, manic in a way that leads Victor to suspect he'd not gone to bed at all. Victor's plan had been to leave for the airfield after breakfast, but as soon as they're done eating Stark bounds to his feet.  
"I want to show you something before you go," he says, fingers fluttering against each other. "It's down in my workshop, won’t take much of your time."

"We should go,” says Loki quietly, but Victor is in no hurry to be stuck in the air for ten hours even if it is on his personal jet, so he follows Stark down into the basement level. He is, though he'd never admit it, a bit charmed by the other man's enthusiasm.

Stark's workshop is walled in glass and defines organized chaos. He's still talking as he leads them inside.

"Hey, so, I did some research on your friend last night after you went to bed. Loki, right? Hard to guess what you'd prefer if you are the Loki, everything's pretty contradictory. Like, when they say this Odin guy is the All father, do they actually mean that? Because dude's got game if that's the case. And your friend Thor, with all the goats..."

"What is your point?" Loki demands.

"Just making conversation,” Stark says lightly. "Because you, you're interesting. I thought you were an AI when I first met you, so I didn't pay much attention. But looking back, you weren't fooled coming up to the house at all, were you? You got a good chuckle out of Victor here being tricked, which, hey, Trickster, right, makes sense, but you knew it was fake right off the bat."

"What do you want to show us?" Victor asks irritated by Stark's babble.

"It's a project. I told you, Jarvis was working on it last night. It's... we'll call it a game."

"I have no interest in games," Victor says, frustration rising.

"Yes you do," says Stark sharply. "I can tell. You need a challenge. We all need a challenge. There is nothing worse than a world where you've beat everything, where there's only one true challenge left."

"Victor," says Loki. "We should go."

The glass doors are shut, but there's someone approaching down the corridor. Stark keeps talking, voice gone light and rapid again. "And you, Loki, no matter how many stories said different things about you, there was one constant. And hey, every game needs a reset button, right?"

"We're leaving," says Victor, striding towards the doors, but they don't open at his approach. On the other side, Pepper Potts steps into view, holding a briefcase and smiling politely.

"And so my question," says Stark from somewhere behind him. "My question is this. How long will it take someone to go crazy when they know nothing's real? When you can recognize it and nobody else can, how long until you tear everything apart just so you can start over again, maybe try different parameters next time, because every game is winnable if you try hard enough."

The doors slide open and Potts slips through, blocking Victor's attempt to step out before they close back up behind her. "Your Majesty," she says, smile still bland. "It's a surprise to see you here. Air traffic reports show your jet took off three hours ago."

"What?"

"Stop it," says Loki frantically.

"Everyone's so upset, they're saying on the news that there was an engine malfunction and the jet crashed into the ocean, no survivors. Lucky you weren't on it after all."

"Everything is ready," says Jarvis. Loki lashes out, but the magic is still the strange ice blue and it fizzles out before it does any damage.

Stark steps up close beside Victor, patting him on the shoulder. "I've been waiting for you for a while now. I couldn't start until I had a nemesis who would be up to the challenge. It's symmetry, I like it. We both build the same things."

Potts tilts her head like she's listening to something, then sits down on the floor. "Bruce has everyone ready on his end," she tells Stark.

Victor calls on his own magic, striking out at everything around him as he simultaneously attempts to hack into Starks' systems and shut down whatever he's got running.

"Initiating," says Jarvis.

“Victor,” says Loki, panicked and high.  
Victor's magic slips into the cracks in the code, first trying to halt it and then when that doesn’t' work, reframing and rewriting chaotically, instinctually.

"What the fuck is that?" Stark demands. "Stop--"

"Initiation complete," says Jarvis.

Victor takes a step forward and it's like stepping into snow--


End file.
